


Starry Night

by westminster



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Art Gallery AU, Case Fic, Completed, First Meeting, First Time, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, art historian hannibal lecter, renaissance paintings, spoiler: hannibal isn't the killer, this is way too soft and sugary to be that kind of story, too many capital F Feelings, will is just will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-01-16 07:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18517099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: “Hannibal, is this right?” Will whispers.“Perhaps. There was moment when I first saw you: big, doe eyes trapped in that painting. All I could do was stare at you - the masterpiece uncurling right before me. You didn't see me but I saw you, I only saw you. I didn't even know who you were but I nearly told you I loved you.”*A killer is on the loose in London, arranging the bodies of his victims to mirror famous paintings. But don't worry, Junior Detective Will Graham and his new sidekick, Art Historian Hannibal Lecter are on the case -- Jack thinks he might as well give in his badge now.





	1. Artemisia

**Author's Note:**

> This all spawned from the prompt 'hey aren't you supposed to be giving the whole gallery talks and not just me?' At the start it was just a one shot, but now I've planned out roughly ten chapters for this fanfiction, and have a pretty solid idea of where it's going. Updates are posted twice weekly. the chapter title, Petia, comes from a painting by Titain. I chose to base this in London simply because I've got a pretty good knowledge of the National Gallery there. Thank you in advance for reading this! Please feel free to leave critiques and suggests below, I do take them into account as I write and develop this story.

Will stares at the painting in front of him, created by one of the greatest artists in human history. He’s never stepped foot in an art gallery before, never had an interest in art. Will prefers reality; nature, animals, woodlands; the things that ground him. However, these broad brush strokes are unmistakably Van Gogh’s and they fix him to the ground, forcing him to stare at the mesmerising colours.

A queue of bustling tourists wait to take a photo besides the famed _Sunflowers_ , but Will is mesmerised by another painting. He’d stood in front of _A Wheatfield, with Cypresses_ simply because it was quiet, overlooked by the hoi polloi in favour of the more renowned paintings, but now he could not fathom the strength to move. The swirls of the sky were captivating, contrasting deeply with the dark green of the foliage. Will had dismissed the task at hand quite a while ago, choosing instead to stare at said painting, trying to find some meaning in the spirals. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/joan-marie/15693711205/in/photolist-qyEPrs-pUNnzF-mjKPse-Hon3Rm-28AwgaY-WfLDtY-rgMMgs-feDPb6-efhDkG-e9rEUu-dtVioZ-aW3FUF-SjnQ6o-rDq7id-cqAiMU-e1JKxn-pPHFxP-e9YxSH-dMGQw9-29Z1vwN-dZ5e9S-5fDFYo-27aZof5-fhrNbK-8gNQ1F-e2rAA4-26w7Pus-aduDjc-pDo7Kc-xyv6Jt-fhFFXd-97euXY-dwoCXk-WJmL3L-5ZVbFy-66Ek8c-qDkKVB-29FgNAy-6aFrjG-M8xk4e-rj2CKW-anghPj-4XVh1X-VCtm8o-afuxXK-9uDe3f-7oy7LE-24583uN-4DVbvj-Tn72KE) 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

A voice brings him out of his reverie, and he turns around to face the cause. A man only a little older than Will smiles back, although Will notices that the smile refuses to extend to the rest of his face. He was impeccably dressed, Will’s eyes travel from the glimmering buttons on the man’s waistcoat, up to his violently purple cravat and finally rest on his name tag.

_H Lecter_ , it reads in cursive letters, next to the logo of the National Gallery.

“I wouldn’t know. Art is not exactly my area of expertise, though it does seem to be _yours_.” Will supplies, gesturing to the badge.

“I may be a tour guide here, but you don’t need a degree in art history to know an excellent painting when you see one.”

Will gives a quick huff, “What’s the £9,000 in University fees for then, if any one can do it?”

The guide walks closer to Will, so that they are both staring the painting. A cold hand rests itself on Will's shoulder, and Will realises he is not averse to the touch.

“Look at it. What do you feel?”

Will’s subconscious is screaming for him to walk away, to get on with his actual job here, and not his feelings. Naturally, he does the most rational thing:

“I feel uneasy, I guess. The swirls become a little nauseating after a bit, I think that’s why I like it. It leaves a mark. It has an impact. I’ve been in here for twenty minutes now and I don’t even remember any other of the paintings I’ve looked at. This one grabs you with it’s uncertainty. It’s wavering, asking you to make a decision. To do something. It... it makes me want to _help it.”_

Will doesn’t know where his explanation comes from, the words seem to flow naturally from his lips. He looks up and sees appraisal on the man’s face.

“See? That was insightful for someone he says he doesn’t understand art. Van Gogh makes you feel what he is - unsteady. Shaking. Swirling. Spiralling. That is what makes it powerful. He painted it whilst in a mental asylum, St Remy, in 1889. It expresses his decent - or his _spiral_ , if you will, into insanity. One of Van Gogh’s most admired qualities is his ability to flirt with genius and madness, although he refused to treat his mental illness at the time with sentimentality.”

“I like it. He painted it when he was mental, then? Wonder what that says about me,” Will says, incredibly dead pan and Hannibal quietly scoffs at his use of words.

“You felt exactly what Van Gogh felt at the time of painting, a skill that I am yet to master. You’re empathetic, you find it difficult to look for the good in people, you are perhaps a little bit unhinged,” he makes a note of Will’s raised eyebrows and swiftly adds, “but in a positive, profound way. Just like the painter.”

“Thanks for the psycho-analysis, Mr. Lecter.”

“Please, call me Hannibal,” he says, holding out an hand.

Will takes it.

“Will Graham. Junior Detective working for Scotland Yard.”

Hannibal doesn't seem affected by this information, apart from a little smirk that plays across his mouth.

“What are you detecting today, Will?”

“I was trying to find a painting called _The Ambassadors_  but there’s so many rooms in here that I couldn’t help but be distracted.” His eyes flicker back to the painting guiltily.

“Come."

Will loops around the thousands of visitors, Hannibal’s strides are brisk and determined, not allowing Will time to absorb his surroundings. Instead he motions to various paintings, and Will is enthralled by the passing glimpse he gets into these genius’ lives.

“Rembrandt. A personal favourite of mine, he was well known for his ego and his flamboyant romantic escapades.”

“Caravaggio. He too was quite self-obsessed. His arrogance was ultimately his hamartia, after murdering a love rival he fled Rome. His home and his desire to return is said to be responsible for his young death at 39.”

Will is impressed by Hannibal’s knowledge of the place. It seems near impossible to navigate: long halls lead into vast, bright rooms that lead into cupboard-like squares with one or two paintings squished on the walls. There are side rooms and random passageways that Will tries to glimpse into, but there is simply too much to see in this building.

Hannibal finally stops in one of the smaller rooms: well-lit to highlight the darkness in the paintings.

“Here we are: _The Ambassadors._ It was painting in 1533 by Hans Holbein the Younger.”

Will follows Hannibal’s hand to the painting that took up the whole wall. He’d only taken a quick glance at it on D.I. Crawford’s laptop screen before being shipped off to the gallery and it’s size is a shock to him. It certainly doesn't disappoint, even he can see how powerful the strokes were, how bold the men were painted. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/mbell1975/6134111644/in/photolist-am3VFA-q5rbrN-6DWhw2-8fk2Js-5zvAJ-5u4DfE-uUvxx-frU7Jj-CYcsh2-235oMJs-8cTBtP-DnyAtz-q3yx9P-cuzMZm-8AB2VW-AtmYfb-fdFuUn-83BB84-9i85DL-83VqSW-9G1P2-rbJoyW-2FLgfZ-U2fTjC-oKX7oG-6r1rj7-28uwCGV-8vaymG-8v7vzV-2XTK9W-4vdwth-XXAHJU-5oXQKT-2652Lrs-JbMs4d-jRuwfv-sXQP3X-27zKzJ-e5xFAE-2UokFK-2cv17em-YM4JRU-5RrPt4-2dQ4nXC-4vZrtG-q5igDF-VfcdDU-e2qKmg-cE9eoU-dYSQtd)

 

“This is a very symbolic painting, Will.” 

The words are palatable coming from the man’s mouth and Will finds himself, for the first time in a long time, calm. He lets Hannibal’s voice wash over him like fine silk, bathing in the passion he emits.

“The man in the pink is Jean de Dinteville, French ambassador to England. His friend is the Bishop of Lavaur. The painting is a testament to the power and the money these two men frivolously wasted.”

Will subconsciously moves closer to Hannibal, shoulders touching. He finds himself attracted to the stranger: like two ends of a magnet, a persistent underlying force, too strong for Will to overpower. If asked, however, he’d have blamed their proximity on the busyness of the gallery. He’d come here straight from Scotland Yard and given no thought to the fact that it was midday.

“I don’t feel anything,” he whispers as he scans the painting.

Hannibal tears his eyes from the painting to look at Will, the way the light dances around his face makes Hannibal realise that this stranger is another form of art entirely. Will has a beauty that, he thinks, not even the great masters would be able to encapsulate in a medium.

“Holbein, the artist, had to earn a living somewhere - and this was a commission by a wealthy clientele. He isn’t particularly trying to portray a feeling in his work. It is quite the contrast from Van Gogh's deeply personal work.”

“Are the objects symbolic in any way? If, say, I was using them to send a message. What do you think that message would be?”

“Well, the thing about this painting is that it’s subject to interpretation. Maybe,” Hannibal pauses, unsure of how to successfully formulate his next sentence, “if I were to know some of the finer contextual details of your case, I could be of more help."

The large, almost comic confidential sign on the file flashes into Will’s mind. Along with that, is the image of Jack Crawford’s glare of disappointment. However, as he stands shoulder to shoulder with Hannibal, body heat transferring between the two men, he doesn’t even have think about his decision.

"This is my first murder case. The victim was a woman - mid twenties, I think. These objects were placed around her body. Jack, that's our DI, sent me here to see if we could build up a psychological profile of the killer. She was murdered last night." 

Hannibal seems relieved at Will’s honesty and relaxes his shoulders slightly.

“This wouldn't be connected to the murder a few days ago, would it? The tourists whose corpses were styled to appear like Ruben's Samson and Delilah?"

"That's what we're trying to work out. Unfortunately, a serial killer seems pretty likely, don't you think?"

"Well, there’s a celestial globe and a portable sundial other there,” Hannibal says, referencing the painting with his gestures, “you can also see a hymn book, a book of arithmetic and a terrestrial globe. Note the various other instruments too. The universal interpretation of this is showing that these two men are not just rich in fortune, but rich in knowledge too. Many of those objects were used for understanding the earth and the heavens.”

Will absorbs the finer details of the objects, getting so close to the painting that he thinks Hannibal will have to pull him back at some point.

“Why is that string broken?” He asks finally, pointing at the lute.

“You have a very astute eye, Will. Then again, you’d be a pretty poor detective f you didn’t pick out that detail,” Hannibal says, his honey voice reverberating around the room, “The universal interpretation is it symbolises religious divisions and religious discord. Whilst at first it may just look like an ordinary commission of some ego-fuelled men, it holds deeper meaning.

“I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned the elephant in the room," Will smiles.

“Yes the skull. A brilliant representation of mortality.”

Hannibal reaches out to Will’s shoulders, moving him to a particular spot on his left. He leans his head down to Will’s neck, looking past Will and to the painting.

“At this exact point, the skull is perfect.”

Will looks up, and sees the skull in all it’s glory.

“Breath-taking” he whispers, though by that point Will had moved his eyes from the painting and was now looking at Hannibal.

A tense silence follows, until Will is brave enough to speak.

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be giving the whole gallery talks and not just me?”

Will instantly regrets speaking, as he sees Hannibal tense up in front of him, the playful hints of a smile leaving his face. 

He reaches into one of his inner pockets to produce a business card.

“Call me if you need any additional help. Although I don’t get off until six tonight.” 

Will stares at the little piece of card in front of him, impeccably designed.

**HANNIBAL LECTER**  
**ART HISTORIAN**

Will thumbs the decorative swirls on the card and sighs, _seems legit._  


	2. La Nona Ora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from Maurizio Cattelan's sculpture, La Nona Ora (The Ninth Hour).

Will’s computer screen illuminates the sharp angles of his face. It is the only source of light in the room, apart from the digital clock that is blinking 2:13 am at him. He's drinking cheap white wine straight from the bottle, clicking rapidly from tab to tab, eyes scanning the masses of text in front of him. He's taped a small copy of The Ambassadors on the corner of the screen but has left the photos of the murder scene safely inside the file. 

The blaring white light makes his head ache incessantly and the words began to meld into each other. Will tears his eyes from the screen and rubs his temples with vigour - he's been looking into the case for hours now and even the basic foundations of the murders have begun to blur.

The man (Will is almost certain it is: the statistics never lie) is organised, extremely intelligent and comes from a high, or at least middle social class. It is clear from the photos that this murder was rehearsed; everything was scripted and mapped out down to the very finest points. His perpetrator is concerned with the details, and Will knows he must be too, searching for that little nugget of information that would tie everything together. 

He sighs and opens yet another tab, clicking the search bar and typing in 'where was the ambassadors painted.' Search.

**ERR_INTERNET_DISCONNECTED**

Refresh.

**ERR_INTERNET_DISCONNECTED**

Refresh.

**ERR_INTERNET_DISCONNECTED**

All Will can do is stare with deep fury at the little Google Chrome dinosaur. He refreshes the page more than a dozen times before going over to the router and giving it a good whack. Still nothing. _What the hell is he paying £50 a month for,_ he thinks gloomily. He's just about to hit refresh again when his phone pings.

_We are extremely sorry for any problems you may be facing with your WiFi connection. We plan to have it back up and running by 10 am tomorrow! Thank you for your continued loyalty and patience._

Patience, Will huffs, he was very quickly losing that. After all, who else can tell him where this stupid, archaic picture was painted? His brain aptly chooses this moment to display the image of the man he'd met earlier that day: the big, dark pupils, and God, _that smirk_. He can see the business card from where he's sitting and has sent the message before he can try to dissuade himself from harassing a stranger with idiotic questions at three in the morning. 

He's barely put his phone down when it chimes again. With a great hesitance, he opens the message, worried that Hannibal might have sent him an angry rant about waking him up at such an obscene hour.

_Painted in England, but if you are looking to link the origin of the painting and the origin of the killer, it may be wise to note that Holbein was originally from Germany. His love for his birth country shines through his paintings._

His phone chimes again and he sees Hannibal's little addition, _just like your lack of sleep shines through your text. "where was the ambassadors panted". Really, Will? I expect more from one of Scotland Yard's finest. When was the last time you slept?_

Will can't help but stand there and grin stupidly to himself. His smile flattens when he realises that he's already way in over his head here.

He meticulously crafts one witty reply after the other, and they both find themselves texting each other as they watch the sun rise, chatting like old friends. Hannibal recites tales of his education in Paris: of how he grew up around art, always a ten minute walk away from the Mona Lisa. Will is enchanted by his words, the memory of their meeting ever-present in his mind. There's a lull in the conversation and Will finds himself typing out _'you said that van gogh was put in an asylum... what for? why did he go insane?’_

It takes a lot longer than normal for Hannibal to reply: "He said the problem lied in society's perception of him. Painters in those days were seen as strange, social deviants. They were misunderstood, rejected by the wider population. Forced into isolation because the average human being refuses to accept anything that isn’t banal, anything that breaks their meaningless unspoken rules of social etiquette."

Will can't think of anything to text back, but before he can let the anxiety infect him, his phone chimes once more. 

_Will, it's 6am. Sleep for a few hours, please. Goodnight._

It is the sane option, Will acquiesces, he's due a meeting with Crawford at nine and he'll be decapitated if he ends up passing out during a meeting (again). So he sends a goodnight back, and lets his recollection of Hannibal's voice send him into a deep slumber. 

He cannot even escape Hannibal in his dreams. Dreams, that he and Hannibal are travelling through corridors decorated with extravagant paintings each having a familiar eerie vibe to them. The pair travel in an almost dance-like state. Hannibal holds him and Will stares at the other man's face as it distorts like the skull in the painting. The tone of the dream shifts, everything seems to warp before his eyes and Will finds himself drowning in huge spreads of colour. The only thing he can hear is Hannibal's laugh, devoid of joy.

He wakes up sweating - and God, he's always sweating. He pushes the dream straight out of his mind, denying it's existence. He vowed a long time ago that he'd never read too much into his dreams. The clock besides him reads 7:45. Shit, Jack's going to kill him.

*** 

Bursting through the door of Jack's office, Will almost falls into a heap on the floor. He's only a few minutes late but the disappointment in Jack's eyes is crystal clear. 

"Sit."

Will obliges and pulls out a stack of papers from his satchel, spreading them across the desk. He fumbles through his facts, messing dates up, praying Jack doesn't notice. The bags under his eyes, however, stick out like a sore thumb. He's normally pretty good at hiding his bouts of insomnia from Jack but something about Hannibal has thrown everything he thought he knew out of the window.  

"...uh so yeah, this guy. He knows his art, Jack."

Jack stares at him completely dead-pan. 

"Thank you for that fresh, enlightening analysis, Will. I think we're definitely close to finding the man that the papers are calling 'mi _kill_ angelo' with the knowledge that he's probably into art." 

Will laughs at the joke, which seems to enrage Jack even more. 

"I'm left with no choice but to hire someone specialises in this area. This is my fault, piling too much on a Junior Detective."

The emphasis he puts on the word _'junior'_ makes something in Will snap, jumping up immediately.

"I know someone. An art historian. He's wonderful - excellent, the best, Jack. He really is. Let me hire him and I swear -- I promise! You will not be disappointed."

Jack accepted a long time ago that the cause of his downfall would be agreeing to one of Will Graham's ideas. He hopes today is not that day.

Will, on the other hand, is thoroughly confident in his proposal. Before Jack can even outline the specifics of the job: the requirements, the hours and the pay (Will raises his eyebrows at the latter, and wonders if he's picked the wrong career path), he's typed out the text message and his thumb is hovering over the send button. 

Jack stops him before the text can be sent, indicating the conversation is over by staring at him and declaring, "Three days, Graham, three days."

He nearly kisses Jack for that, because an incredible idea forms in Will's mind. The National Gallery is only a ten minute tube ride away from the yard, and all Will wants right now is to see Hannibal again. Asking him in person is the much better option.

***

A boy. Or is it a girl? Either way their face is one of revulsion. Will's sure he's walked passed this one at least three times now. He looks at the description nonchalantly. _'Boy bitten by a lizard - Caravaggio.'_ Well, at least it had cleared that question up. 

He's been wandering around the gallery for what feels like forever, stopping at the art that catches his eye, imagining how Hannibal would describe them. He can't seem to find the man in question, even going so for as to check the gift shop. He's purchased a print of the Van Gogh painting he'd been staring when he first met Hannibal, resolute in the idea that it would look perfect on his bedroom wall.

The man behind the register is perky and over-confident but Will pushes himself to ask the man if he knows where Hannibal is. 

"Sorry kid," he says, a little patronisingly, and Will immediately hates him. "He doesn't work Mondays. But that's terrible luck because today's one of the only days he doesn't come in. He's a work-a-holic that one, a bit creepy too. Always thought something was off with him, always had a good sense for that kind a thing. My Ma said it too, you see when I was growing up ther-"

Will storms off, not even bothering with a thank you. It's a miracle he didn't hit the man, honestly. 

When he arrives at his dingy little apartment, he is greeted by the now-familiar chime of his phone. Typing in the pass code, (1234 because Will likes to think he's a rebel who doesn't play by the rules of e-safety), he's shocked to find a text from Hannibal.

_A rude brunette with messy hair and glasses was apparently inquiring about me today, any idea who that could possibly be?_

_Rude?!?!?!?!?_

_That can be forgiven, you were talking to Peter Jacques, after all. Peter, really? Surely a detective of your ability would be able to recognise that he's a prolific gossiper who's prone to exaggeration._

_im a junior detective, not sherlock bloody holmes! but i do have something we need to discuss..._

_A proposition? You've certainly peaked my interest. Though it sounds like it may be better discussed face to face. Perhaps over coffee, at the National Gallery cafe? Tomorrow morning?_

_tomorrow morning, doctor watson._

_Sweet dreams, Will._

But for once, Will is blessed with a dreamless sleep.


	3. The heartstrings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from a painting by Rene Magritte

Being incredibly late is a recurring theme in Will’s life. He sits opposite Hannibal’s scornful eye in the small cafe, apologising profusely for the mess he'd found himself in, twenty minutes behind schedule and he's pretty sure his sweater is on backwards. Handing over the documents detailing the offer to the other man, Will ensures that their fingers brush slightly. He attempts (and fails) to hide the shivers that go up his spine when their skin connects. 

Will explains the finer details of the contract, willing for Hannibal to express some emotion - any emotion. However, he remains frozen, asides from a few nods of understanding. It makes Will anxious, not be being able to psychoanalyze somebody. It’s also what attracts him to Hannibal: the excitement of the unknown. 

Despite Will’s obvious enthusiasm, the man in question seems to become frostier with Will’s presence, surveying him with cold eyes. When Will finishes off his speech with a dramatic flourish, Hannibal merely stares at him and states, “Try the scones.” 

That remark makes Will look at his surroundings for the first time that morning, only to find that a tiered stand had been placed besides them, littered with an assortment of pastries. Even though he's itching for an answer, he hasn’t eaten this morning - Hannibal was much more important - and doesn’t see why a small scone will harm anyone. 

It did. 

He marvels at the softness of the cream and the perfect level of flakiness, and truly despises how much his palette appreciates the food. He knows he will never eat something as perfect as this again. 

“It’s good,” he tries to say whilst cramming another bite in his mouth, crumbs tumbling down his chin, “really good. More than good. Probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten. You’ll never get me out of here now.” 

Hannibal manages to force a smile at the sentiment of the statement, but found himself slightly repulsed by Will’s refusal to adhere to the rules of proper etiquette. 

“I’m glad you find my baking acceptable.”

Gulping down a large mouthful of the scone, Will stares at Hannibal wide-eyed. 

"You made this?" He screeches, attracting disapproving glares from some of the clientele, not caring because _wow_ this is so good that it's making his taste buds cry tears of joy because if can just make Hannibal stick around for a bit he can enjoy this again and again and again. "Oh god, you are an angel of the Lord. This is genuinely like heaven in my mouth."

The rest of their meeting follows in a similar fashion. Namely, Will eating as much as he can get his hands on, astounded at how good everything tasted and Hannibal murmuring small thank yous, trying to avoid the eyes of disgruntled customers. 

Will's behaviour makes Hannibal uneasy - after all, he has a reputation to keep up at the gallery. It also makes him unable to accept Will's offer. Working for the police seems messy, complicated. He doesn't want to form attachments. He's been in the same job for over a decade now and hates - no, perhaps he is afraid of - change. This friendship that has begun to form is one of the biggest turmoils his perfect life has ever faced and he's still recovering from that. He has made his decision: taking on another short-term job would push him to his limits, and he would never forgive himself if he brought Will down with him.

He does, however, feel a pang of guilt when he tries to express this to Will. The man takes it as a personal insult, and leans back immediately, trying to create as much space between the two as possible. Will's face flushes a dim red and Hannibal wanted to reverse everything he's said, just to see that smile again.

Oh god, he thinks, I'm already in too deep.

And that's the truth, he constantly feels like he's drowning with Will. _In_ Will. Drowning in his own emotions, suffocating himself with Will's kind gaze. He hates it. Or rather, he hates how much he loves it, how he revels in the touches and the glances and the smiles, how even though it pained him, he could never get enough of Will.

He places the napkin that has been resting on his lap back onto table, and stands up. Hannibal forces himself to look Will straight in the eyes, "My shift starts in ten minutes, I have to go." 

On his way out, he rests his hand lightly on Will's shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

It is the first time that those words have ever left his lips. Hannibal had a headache. And his headache’s name was Will Graham.

***

"Oi, where's that fancy one?" 

Whoever the voice belongs to had spoken so ferociously that she had spat on Hannibal's ear. Trying to hide his disgust, Hannibal turns to face the cause. A small, toad-like woman glares back at him. Her face betrays the fact that she had once been extremely large: pockets of weary skin hangs down from her chin, giving her the appearance of a Basset Hound. She rubs her heavily-tattooed hands onto her 'I HEART LONDON' shirt, stained with what appears to be mustard. This is the worst part of his job, the general public. They tended to be absolutely revolting at times and this woman was no exception

He casts a condescending glance over the woman, though she is far too half-witted to notice. 

“Madam, I need a little more information to be of assistance.”  

The woman chews a piece of gum so hard in response that the sound reverberates around the room. 

“What d'you mean more information? It’s the famous one! The famous one of the smiling woman.” 

_Deep breaths, deep breaths._

“Are you referring to the Mona Lisa? That is housed in the Musee D’orsay in Paris.” 

The woman snorts. Hannibal shudders. 

“Rubbish, Britain is going to the dogs I tell ya - givin' all our good paintings to the immigrants, you wouldn't get that in my day."

_Think happy thoughts_ , a voice in Hannibal’s head says. He’s endured this situation countless times and began to conjure up a familiar image of his Parisian childhood. The memory of walking through the streets at night, overcome with emotion at the beauty of his city grounds him. However, the familiar memory changes, and the scene becomes blurry, becoming less and less visible until it had completely morphed into another memory. A Wheatfield, with Cypresses. A scruffy, unkempt man who had been staring at the painting for long enough to intrigue Hannibal. The warmth of his body. The empathy in his big, doe eyes. Will. _Happy thoughts._

The woman stares at him wide-eyed, like she expects him to magic up a DaVinci right then and there. He turns around to indicate the end of the conversation, and comes face to face with the painting that had brought so much meaning into his life. 

His heart rate speeds up. Hannibal doesn't believe in fate but he knows what this means, what all of this means. He needs Will Graham.

***

The thought stalks Hannibal, following him all the way through his shift and to his home. It continues to occupy his mind at the current moment, as he concentrates on flambéing a piece of saganaki cheese. He has cooked into the early hours of the morning, preparing for a dinner party that would be attended by the heads of the art industry. Although it’s been advertised as a casual affair, Hannibal has seen the guest list already and refuses to miss an opportunity to succeed. 

His mind often drifts to Will and the job offer. Every single cell in his body is screaming that it’s a terrible idea, that he’ll regret it, regret taking a chance on a complete stranger. Especially when that stranger is as confusing as Will Graham. 

Thoughts of Will dance around his head as he cooks, perfecting his chosen dishes. Saganaki is a fairly routine ingredient in Hannibal's kitchen but as he drifts into yet another fantasy involving Will, he catches the cuffs of his shirt on the flames and has to stick his hand in the sink. That's the first time he's burned himself since his early days in the kitchen, he laments how much had changed - how much _he_ had changed - since his first encounter with Will.

As he perches on the counter, observing the mess he'd made in the last few hours, he can’t help feeling vindictive towards Will. How had this stupid stranger, the same as all the other stupid strangers he deals with, so quickly destroyed the defences that had taken a lifetime to build up? Will had taken him hostage, and Hannibal didn't think he would ever be able to escape. And now he sits in his gloomy kitchen at three am, contemplating his vulnerability as he stares at the painting hung adjacent to him.

_Tarquin and Lucretia_ by Titian. He’s received many art prints over the years from colleagues. Hannibal’s entire life revolves around art. He embodies art, and art embodies him too. However, this particular print was the first he’d ever received and is also the only one that wasn’t collecting dust in storage. It was a gift from his first boss, who’d called him Tarquin, to the point where Hannibal was unsure if she even knew his real name. She’d never explained the choice and Hannibal had never asked, fearing the answer. Titian painted Tarquin moments before he had raped Lucretia, his twisted idea of love, his deranged longing for her eventually leading to Lucretia's suicide. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/hen-magonza/26783261811/in/photolist-iKqXVu-24fjojp-22y6KTw-22y6JhW-7cZqhx-czkSR9-bt6Pu7-22y6JQQ-GNKdC4-2akboSY-rL6qMr)

It is a tragic scene, and Hannibal cannot take his eyes from Lucretia’s. Her aghast look is chilling, as she realises she is moments away from her terrible destiny. He idly wonders if, in that moment, Lucretia had regretted the way she had lived her life and the fact that her fate would have been entirely different if she had altered a few insignificant things. He wonders if her suicide was worth it - after all, her death led to the revolt of the Romans and the establishment of the Roman Empire. Was this God’s cruel justification of her fate? Would she have been content with knowing that her death had made a bigger contribution to society than if she would have if she had lived? 

The vibration of his phone settles him back in reality. His heart wavers slightly when he sees Will’s name attached to the incoming text, and then falters even more when the text reads: 

_r u awake? pls call me. urgent._

There is no flicker of hesitation as he dials Will’s number. The call connects immediately and Hannibal grips the edge of the counter as he hears sniffles coming from the other end of the line. 

“Hannibal - his next victim... he’s killed again. God, Hannibal, she was a child. A child! She had just turned 16 and I had to stand there and look at her butchered, naked body. I couldn’t do it... all the innocence and nativity had gone from her eyes. She was so hollow and empty, just a shell... Hannibal, I can’t...” 

His voice trails off and Hannibal is confronted with the memory of Mischa. His Mischa. As he listens to Will’s sobs, his eyes rest on Lucretia. In Lucretia’s face he sees so much of Mischa, and added to that is now the face an unknown, innocent teenager.

“I’ll do it,” he declares, speaking before his brain can catch up and stop him, “I’m your specialist. Now, text me your address and I shall arrive as soon as possible.”

Hannibal ignores Will’s faint protests, digging out a jar of cocoa from his cabinet. 


	4. Entombment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from a painting by Giovanni Battista Lama

 “You shouldn’t have come," Will says as he opens the door.

One glance at the man's dishevelled state makes it clear that Hannibal's presence is a very good idea. Will looks awful: sore, tired eyes from all the tears, a nose that has been rubbed so hard it's begun to scar and a huge clump of tissues in his hand. 

“Nonsense,” Hannibal murmurs and places a hand on Will’s shoulder. It's meant to be a simple gesture of comfort, a tiny pat to demonstrate Hannibal’s pity. However, Will accepts it as something more and clasps his arms around Hannibal, clinging to the other man like he is the last human being on earth. He begins to sniffle into the warm neck in front of him and Hannibal tries to stop thinking about the snot that Will is likely smearing all over his new suit. He distracts himself from his hygienic worries by rubbing small circles into Will’s back and then bringing his hands up to thread them through Will's hair. 

Will allows them to part slightly so he can look Hannibal in the eye. The sun had started to come up and beams of sunlight dance on Will’s face. Hannibal follows the light, trying to catch it gently with his fingers, stroking Will’s cheek. 

“It’s okay, Will. It’s going to be okay now.”

*

Hannibal stares at a hole in Will Graham's odd socks beneath the clear table. Will's attempts to compose himself around Hannibal are futile, still eliciting brief coughs and sniffs every few minutes. The cocoa sits untouched by both of them, a mere formality at this point. Will begins to describe the crime scene but pauses soon after as the words begin to catch in his throat and choke him, soft tears resting on his cheeks. Hannibal feels faintly uncomfortable in this situation. Emotion and grief are foreign to him and he isn't sure what the best approach to Will's blubbering form is. The photos of the incident lie in an unopened envelope in front of Hannibal, and he wants to wait for some sort of acquiescence from Will before opening them. One of Will's hands rub his forehead, shielding his reddening eyes in embarrassment. The other lies open-palmed and inviting on the table, a subconscious request for comfort. Hannibal interprets this as so, thankful for some sort of vague instruction. He complies, wanting to give Will all the support he can, resting his palm in Will's.

"Speak to me. Let's talk through this together, Will, and hopefully I shall be able to shed some light on the case." 

Will begins to recount everything that Jack had told him: how the victim was part of a student program at the Gallery, hoping to secure an apprenticeship in the end. The girl, Ella Sandiford, had been on her way to the Gallery's storage facilities when she'd been lured into an alley and sedated. They'd found her that same evening, in an abandoned apartment builing, the dress she'd worn sliced in one straight line from the back of her neck to the crevices in her legs, exposing the pale skin of her back, leading down to her bottom where red fabric pooled under. A mirror had been placed with precision, so that when one stood directly behind her body, her lifeless face stared back at you in the mirror. The autopsy had confirmed that the strong sedatives had been the official cause of death, and no other form of harm had come to the girl. 

Hannibal opens the envelope during Will's recount, finding the photographs beautiful in their own malignant way. The artist in him sees the painstaking detail that had gone into recreating Velasquez's _The Rokeby Venus._  However, the more humane part of him feels cruel and sadistic for thinking such things when faced with a grotesque murder. To distract from his inner turmoil, Hannibal starts to tell Will all that he knows about the painting in question. Will goes to reach out for a pen, eager to make notes but silently curses himself when he realises the hand he writes with is the one entwined with Hannibal's. Reluctantly, he breaks his only point of contact with the other man and immediately misses Hannibal's touch. He feels hollow, a shell of his previous self, like he wasn't whole unless a part of Hannibal was with him. That's delusional, he thinks sombrely, I'm delusional.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/lluisribes/13900141113/in/photolist-nbiRFp-6VwnrD-6VAHao-HCUJJ9-jv9fA5-889PXP-qTor8y-GCVdz-rvKo3-gbgZwh-niomwT-6a3zGf-fz5SF8-gbh9ju-6Jj3E-58yw7C-6a2FeQ-Y14aqw-dacZXM-6VANe5-oFLEoc-291W94o-6Ugn3d-21Jpm6G-6Ukc9B-8WG5wM-daafUC-sizezm-aDC4JP-2aWhyT4-6MxS7i-Aptzc2-yQcAfX-MTQQkJ-dhDDCc-eFzrxd-mbCusp-5tZkhx-eVbcx9-emvhAL-25a1BJY-69Ym9X-4Tr3Rc-fzy48e-b4Gqi-qbZoY7-aD6U6e-6H65qV-L4PSuk-Rsqcyx)

"The Rokeby Venus is beautiful - Velasquez's only surviving nude painting. It's a refreshing change from the usual frontal nude portraits one sees in Renaissance art. Such paintings are blatantly sexual. Although, one might say this is even more erotic, more sensuous, only being able to see the undulating curves of her back. Onlookers are thus tempted to picture what is on the other side - after all, isn't Velasquez ability make us seduced by our own imagination much more powerful than simply painting a pair of symmetrical breasts?"

"But surely this isn't a sexual thing for the killer - he never undresses his victim more than necessary. If it was a fetish, it'd be highly like he'd sexually assault the body in some way.” 

“Exactly my thinking,” Hannibal smiles, and in response Will relaxes his shoulders slightly, “I believe the perpetrator’s sole reason to commit such actions is not out of any of the reasons that have been mentioned but rather, out of love. In this strange, malicious way, these murder scenes are signs of love, of devotion. Like he’s got something to prove. Can I ask - why do you automatically assume the murderer is male? You keep referring to them with male pronouns.”  

“94% of serial killers are male, it’s simply a presumption we all make when dealing these types of crimes at the Yard. You think otherwise?”  

“I wouldn't know enough to make a concise judgement. However, the detail and craftsmanship that has gone into these crime scenes lends itself to a woman’s touch. That may be me being unfairly stereotypical, and I must reprimand myself if you deem it untrue. The devil, as they say, is in the details though - if you look very closely at the murder scene, you can see that the mirror has a thin layer over it. It appears to be a chalk of some kind but I could not say for certain, it makes the victim’s face appear grainy and ambiguous. Just like in the painting - the technique Velasquez used masked Venus’ face, further highlighting the ambiguity there. You see and you don’t see. It’s truly a masterpiece.” 

“Genius,” Will mumbles, not thoroughly intending to say it. The word slips out, but his carelessness is rewarded with a hint of a grin from Hannibal. 

“I’ll bring up the gender issue with Crawford, it’s an interesting concept. Either way, our murderer is using these as a shrine to the Gallery, almost like a courting gift. It seems to be clear from the iconography for love; Venus, the Goddess of Love and Cupid in the background; that our perpetrator is utterly infatuated with these paintings.”  

There is something uniquely beautiful about their relationship in that moment. They are working in sync, attuned to each other’s thoughts, practically telepathic in nature. They are like two wheels on a bicycle, both whirring as fast as possible to propel them forward, solely and utterly reliant on each other. 

“Will - this person is not going to stop. The paintings alone aren’t enough to satisfy their needs anymore. They are going to kill and kill and kill to get as close to their art as possible.“ 

“That’s good, it means they’re erratic and not in control of their own actions. They will make a mistake... we just need to be ready when they do.”  

Hannibal interprets this as an end to their conversation and wanders to what he presumes is the kitchen. He takes their untouched mugs of cocoa with him. Will sees no choice but to follow, the sound of his bare feet against the wooden floor filling the room. 

"Hannibal, you don't have to wash up - I invited you here. You're my guest, after all, surely that's a breach of proper etiquette?"

The other man smirks at Will and continues to fill the sink.  

"On the contrary, I believe that I invited myself." Hannibal notices Will's uncomfortable posture adds, "You can dry them, if you like." 

His first serious investigation has taken a toll on Will, and there had been a huge collection of dishes in the sink. It took them a good twenty minutes to wash them in the end, but they make an efficient team, just like before. Will dries himself with the tea towel and offers it to Hannibal. Instead of letting him take it, Will makes the not-so-conscious decision to rub Hannibal dry himself, taking his time to move the cloth around every inch of skin his long sleeves exposed. 

Will puts the towel back on the counter but Hannibal remains frozen and Will prays he hasn't read the situation wrong. However, Will feels the warm weight of Hannibal's hand against his cheek, using his thumb to stroke the skin next to Will's mouth. Will stares upwards at Hannibal, eyes roving over his face, searching for some sign of desire. He leans forwards, into Hannibal's space until all his brain can process is the scent of the other man's cologne. They are inches away from something, both urging the other one to take the leap. 

Before Will's brain can made a choice, Will's doorbell rings making them both jump away from each other, Will cursing as he bangs his knee on the counter. 

Sheepishly, he moves away from Hannibal and opens the door to a thoroughly exhausted Jack Crawford. Jack nearly knocks Will to the ground as he barges past, flopping down into the nearest available chair and sighing. He examines the room, his eyes finally resting on Hannibal's face which betrays hints of what just occured.

"Graham, you know you're supposed to notify me if you start a relationship during an active investigation," Crawford says, more surprised than angry, really. 

Will's denial gets stuck in his throat, rendering him silent and agape. As soon as Hannibal realises Will's ineptness, he takes control, offering his hand to the man, "Jack Crawford, I assume? Will talks about you with great admiration. We are not however, currently engaged in a relationship." 

Will's eyes widened at the lilt in Hannibal's voice when he says the word 'currently.'

"...My name is Hannibal Lecter and I work for the National Gallery. Although, given the contract I am about to sign, it seems like you shall also be my employer very soon."

There's a sign of realisation in Jack's eyes and he gladly shakes Hannibal's hand. 

"Well, Mr. Lecter, I was about to discuss the latest murder with Will, if you'd like to join us."

Hannibal's gaze flickers to Will and as much as he wants to, as much as part of him longs to stay there to comfort him, he declines, citing his need for sleep before his next shift at work.

As they say their parting words, Hannibal finds himself lingering at the doorway.

"You look like one of my paintings," he whispers, to fill the void, "you eyes are like something Gainsborough would paint."

Will hopes that the blush spreading across his face is masked by the darkness of his hallway. 

"I don't know who that is but I know it's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about me. Thank you." 

Will refuses to close the door until Hannibal is completely out of sight.


	5. The Last Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from michelangelo's fresco.

_Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock_

The sound normally unnerves Will, but now it has him grinning resolutely at the clock in Jack's office. The knowledge that he's half an hour early for this meeting, an unusual feat for him, is a good feeling. Moreover, Jack's surprised face when he sees Will here? Now that will be something truly grand.

"Did you get any sleep?" is all Jack greets him with, only pausing to see Will's small nod before launching into yet another summary of the investigation so far. Will's fists clench tightly - Jack's treating him like a complete beginner, like he's a nervous wreck, a liability. At first Will was thankful that someone had rescued him from his downwards spiral into isolation, but over the years Jack's close scrutiny of his personal life had begun to feel rather insulting.

It's all repeated information, Will's certain he knows more about this case than Jack does, thanks to Hannibal. Jack includes some phrases that came straight out of Will's mouth last night and Will gnaws at his bottom lip to stop himself from snapping. He begins to pay attention when he heard the words, "We've made some developments since our last meeting though..."

Will sits up, propping his chin up, elbows squashed on the tiny desk. As Jack continues, he spreads various photos and documents around, manically circling and crossing things out as he goes. 

"As you said, this killer is highly organized. The forensics department gave me a report this morning: the items are mathematically placed to mirror the paintings, so that every single object is the perfect ratio away from each other. Indicates OCD and a high intelligence. This is a man who obsesses over patterns and perfection, no mistakes have been made. Think about it Will: the crimes have happened every three days like clockwork. He kidnaps somebody from the Gallery, around 9pm so that their bodies are ready to be discovered in the early hours of the morning. Three days between Samson and Delilah and The Ambassadors. Three days between The Ambassadors and The Rokeby Venus."

"...and today is three days after The Rokeby Venus," Will whispers, eyes widening, "There's going to be another killing tonight? Is that what you're implying?"

"That's where the figures point, I'm afraid."

"Jack, it's nearly 9pm now - why aren't we doing anything? Shut down the Gallery, evacuate Trafalgar Square!"

Jack gives Will an apologetic smile, which only serves to frustrate Will even further. "I wish, but it'd be highly illogical at this stage. There have only been three murders so far and you've been a member of the investigation for two of them. If we shut down one of the busiest tourist attractions in the world they'd be public outcry. People are already barricading themselves in their houses because of this idiotic media storm. We’ve got people stationed all around the gallery, he won’t slip past us."

Jack pauses. He’s afraid to meet Will's eye, like a single glance would break him. Will’s eyebrows furrow furiously at his superior, set to burst if Jack even thinks of holding things back from him.

"Will," he begins sympathetically. Will's fists are now clenched so tightly that spikes of pain are shooting through his body. It's comforting in a way. The pain grounds him, it listens to him, unlike Crawford. "We have a pretty good suspect. Name's Leonard. Leonard Brunswick. He's had numerous cautions for stalking. He used to work at an art gallery in Manchester but become obsessed with a member of staff to the point where he broke into her house to steal her belongings. Even though he's had a clean record since, this behaviour is just the sort of thing we'd be looking for in our man. He's worked all the nights of the murders, including right now. We can't go in right now when we've got no concrete evidence, we can't alarm him, I have people monitoring every breath he takes. We just can't risk aggravating it."

Will raises his voice to meet Jack's commanding tone, "No, we can't risk another death." 

He's not really paying attention when Jack brings his speech about all the safety precautions they've put in place to a close. No, his mind is occupied by more pressing matters. Somebody at the Gallery would be murdered tonight. It could be anybody, Will knows, but the image of Hannibal is too dominant in his mind to dismiss. Jack is too caught up in his own ideas to notice Will frantically searching through his phone. He finds what he's looking for and it makes his hands shake so much that he drops it. 

Will's out of the office and sprinting down the corridor before Jack can even raise an eyebrow.

"What do you think you're doing?" He shouts and Will doesn't even flinch. 

Jack can only make out the word 'Hannibal' before Will's already out the door, bypassing the lift and practically flinging himself down the stairs. The London streets are brimming with people exploring the night life, pavements crammed to the point where Will chooses to run straight down the middle of road, not caring about the honks of car horns. Hannibal is working right now. With the murderer. Hannibal. He cares too deeply about Hannibal to lose him now. Not after all that is left unsaid, not whilst there was so much between the two that remained unacknowledged. Will longs to be with him right now, both of them pretending not to notice how close they were. The possibility of never seeing Hannibal again is all too present in his mind as he navigates the maze that is the London underground. 

Panic is clear on Will's face when he hears the familiar _beep beep beep_ , signalling that the tube door was about to close. The Gallery is only one tube stop away, but Will knows the difference a couple of minutes make in cases like this. The senior detectives he'd shadowed as a beginner all had some regretful tale about a singular mistake that had been the difference between life and death. He throws himself into the tube, the doors closing on his satchel. He doesn't think for a moment when he legs go and it drops to the other side of the platform. The choice between a bag and his best friend's life was clear. Best friend, Will mused, they hadn't even known each other for a week yet and Will was already getting possessive. He just prayed that the other man felt the same. 

The other passengers on the tube don't even blink. A strange, red-faced man throwing away his belongings only to spend the tube journey to Charing Cross looking like he's about to vomit? That's an average journey to work in this part of London. When Will emerges from the underground, he can see the National Gallery ahead. It's so close, _he's_ so close. He's running so fast that his legs feel like they will give in at any moment but being minutes away from Hannibal's very alive face, he knows that resting is not an option.

* 

As he dashes around each room, visitors start to take note and leave. Will's not surprised: he's sweating so much it looks like he's been coated with rain and his breathes are heavy, on the verge of collapse. To these people, he is a madman, running like his life depends on it. He knows he'll get scolded for this, probably by someone higher up than Jack, but his watch reads 9:10pm and he can still find no trace of Hannibal. Will forces himself to collapse into a nearby chair, fearing his lungs might give out if he continued. Directly adjacent to him was a sign that told him Rembrandt was that way, Bernini was the other way, left for Bruegel, straight ahead for Van Go- 

Will stood up so fast that it sends sharp pains through his body, making him think he's going to collapse all over again. It's a stupid idea really, but the only one Will has. Van Gogh. The wheat field. It was their beginning and Will fears it will also be Hannibal's end. His frenzied actions part the crowd of tourist like Moses with the Red Sea and he sprints to where the arrows point and wave of familiarity washes over him, making him stop in his tracks. He knows where he's going now, the paintings felt like old friends - a comforting, physical support for him. His eyes dart from painting to painting, from Seurat to Monet, finally resting on the wall dedicated to Van Gogh. Will's bottom lip trembles and he felt his whole body go numb, Hannibal is there. Alive. Hands threaded behind his back, his posture impeccable as he stared, completely lost in the painting that had drawn the two so close together. Will can't help but scream his name in relief, the tears in his eyes blurring his vision. Hannibal is caught off guard and the way he spins around is inelegant and clumsy and blissfully humane. In his lifetime, Hannibal has seen many masterpieces that have made him weep with their sheer beauty but none were more moving than the one in front of him. He allows his barrier to drop a little bit, the corners of his mouth showing the smallest hints of a smile. Will doesn't think, just acts. Then all of a sudden he is running to Hannibal, embracing him, clinging onto him, his anchor in the swirls of the painting. Hannibal reciprocates by rubbing small circles into the other man's back. 

When Will seems stable enough to support his own weight, Hannibal pries himself from Will's grip, moving so that they're clutching each other's forearms instead. "Will, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

All Will can whisper, his face still in Hannibal's neck, is, "I thought I lost you," over and over and over again.

Hannibal moves hand to cup Will's cheek. The gesture quietens Will, calms him.  

"Thank you."

Hannibal smiles at Will. This time it's a real and full smile, the kind that Will knows he does not hand out freely. It makes his heart rate speed up drastically: he made that happen. 


	6. The Lion Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from a painting by peter paul rubens

Will's having flashbacks to his school days, when anxiety would churn in his stomach as he sat in the dreaded headmaster's office, anticipating a scolding. But Mr Finnegan and his foul breath are long gone and instead of staring at the mossy green carpet, he traces the symmetrical lines on the floor of Jack's office. He can hear Hannibal's soft breaths beside him as he awaits Jack's arrival, a soft and persistent comfort. He feels an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia, even though the office is fairly big. His whole body feels like it's being tightened and crushed in a vice, clogging up his throat, closing any access to the outside world. The familiar, metallic tang of blood hits the back of his throat as he realises he's been biting his bottom lip far too hard. 

A hand snakes around Will's arm, coming to rest on his thigh. It's Hannibal's, of course, and Will hopes the jolt of pleasure that rushes through his body has goes unnoticed. The other man gives his thigh a small squeeze of reassurance and his worries dissolve instantly. He catches Hannibal's eye and _God, this moment is worth more than anything in the National Gallery. Priceless._ The corners of Hannibal's mouth evolve into the slightest hints of a smile and Will melts like a ice pop on a hot day. 

Jack strides in, exuding a dominance that makes Will sink down into the very depths of his chair, preparing for Jack's verbal annihilation of his actions. Jack launches into a speech that lasts a good twenty minutes, covering every single rule that Will broke, adding up all the punishments for his actions. He holds nothing back, and Will grimaces and as Jack looks down at him extending the harsh consonants in "disappointed" and "shame" and "foolish." By this point, Hannibal's hand has moved from Will's thigh, but their arms are still squashed together in the small seats. That tiny, wonderful pressure is the only thing keeping him sane right now.

"...the lead suspect was detained and questioned all night, since approximately 10pm. He was detained _whilst_ last night's murder was being committed. We had no choice but to let him go, he wasn't our man. And now we're back at square one."

The news of another murder makes Will sit up in his chair, shivering when the cold hits where Hannibal's arm once was. A wave of nausea and utter helplessness envelops him, the knowledge that he hadn't prevented another death stung. He demands that Jack show him and Hannibal photos from the crime scene.

"Will, I'm sorry, but I see no choice but to put on temporary leave. You need to take time off, an incident like this demands rest."

"Jack! There are people _dying_ as we speak," Will nearly yells, throat aching, "we could help! There's a reason why we're on the Yard's payroll."

Jack shakes his head and Will feels like he's going to break down at any moment.

"Please." Will speaks at almost a whisper, voice cracking slightly, "What if we could change something? Please, give us a chance."

Jack's posture softened slightly, relaxing his shoulders. "Ok, let me do you a deal, Will. You and Hannibal have fifteen minutes to tell me everything you can about this painting and then it's a rest -- for _both_ of you. Do something nice together, escape for a few days, I don't care. Just rest."

"...but the killer isn’t resting!" 

"Tough. take three or four days off or I remove you from this case. There are other people that can handle it, you're not the only one in this department. I don’t want this to be too much too fast for you Will, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if something happened. You need to breathe." 

Will opens his mouth to retort, but finds himself distracted by Hannibal leaning in front of him, grabbing the envelop Jack has laid on the table in a way that disturbs his shirt, exposing a small circle of pale skin. Will is enthralled. He stays there, in that state of enthrallment as Hannibal proceeds to flick through the pictures, breathes beginning to quicken.

"Peter."

Will leans over and sees a familiar face. A familiar, lifeless face. Then it clicks. The familiar, lifeless face of the man in the National Gallery gift shop who had previously been so rude to Will. He didn't deserve this, Will thought, he didn't deserve to be found dead in an abandoned storage facility, body naked and contorted. 

Jack sighs, looking genuinely pained as he speaks to Hannibal, "Yes, Mr. Lecter, that's your colleague Peter Jacques, I'm sorry to say. The identity of the woman next to him is still unknown but we believe she was a foreign visitor to the Gallery. Tell me about the painting."

"Bacchus and Ariadne was the painting that propelled Titian to fame, commissioned by the Duke of Ferrara in 1520. It captures the Greek myth of Ariadne, who had just been abandoned by Theseus. Look at the toy boat the perpetrator has placed on the floor - it's Theseus' ship, like in the painting. Theseus promised to take Ariadne with him after he slayed the Minotaur, to wed her in in Greece. The painting depicts the moment she looks behind her and catches the eye of the god Bacchus. It is the greatest depiction of love at first sight in human history, a truly magnificent scene. As the adage goes, Bacchus encapsulates his love for her by transforming her into a constellation. Now every single human throughout history can look up to the skies and see Ariadne's beauty for themselves. The perpetrator has painted the constellation in the top right, see here? Just like in the painting."

[  ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/lluisribes/10105320725/in/photolist-goYpMF-ac5mok-gvbCbM-VU5G9e-jAEqeR-adf9zj-fpLARt-gvaNQ6-q9Ddp5-jeuEWU-f5ho3f-8SaK2T-HVcYBs-gTm3hp-pTtWJg-4yi4im-csgNLG-8aQ7KN-gvaqjo-W6C4ai-69t4i6-6pBAv6-m9H1BK-hT9nnL-5H5nUj-WHAjAm-6mbxHm-fQZ2cN-cGfxv9-jyUhLb-pGvzYP-mu3oFK-kHsN4-jmrFVy-UPi1TL-rbQQ9x-dwusAG-6DEKaz-aLzoVR-7GMVZu-5UG2QM-am3Y7E-jyUkKh-pZ4JFS-pbY1oU-8EEjR7-jeuDCw-ebUut5-27ZXNms-iyCDCm)

Jack then turns to Will, staring at him for an awfully long time, waiting for Will's comment.

"Well, I think the killer is performing these almost ritualistic murders as a token of love for the gallery," Will's brain feels as though it's tangled and twisted, unable to locate the necessary words, "He's in love with these paintings. He'd do anything for them, they're like his children. But where does it end? How far up will he go?"

Scribbling unintelligible notes, Jack nods along with Will, looking up every few seconds to catch Will's eye. He finally puts the pencil down and gestures to dismiss the two.

He shouts to Will as he leaves the office, and Will looks back.

"Don't even think about this case. Please. It's for your own good."

"No promises," Will mutters as he smiles back.

Hannibal waits in the dingy, barely-lit corridor until Will catches up, resting his arm on the other man's

"I'd like to invite you back to my apartment. Let me cook you dinner, then at least you can keep Jack's rule of not thinking about the case with a little company."

The statement evokes a grin from Will and his heart soars a million miles into the air, dinner with Hannibal. Churning in the very pits of his stomach, however, is a ravenous guilt - he was the one responsible for this whole fiasco and now he was letting make Hannibal him dinner? Was that ungrateful?

"I couldn't," Will says, the rejection burning him as it tumbles out of his lips, "I've caused you so much trouble already, I really shou-"

Hannibal injects, that all-too-familiar lighthearted smile dancing around his face, "Please. Allow me. Treat it as a gift for looking after my safety so dearly. What you did was no ordinary feat." 

Will is beyond happy to comply.


	7. Pieta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from a sculpture by michelangelo

"This is _unbelievable."_

That's the first thing Will says when he walks into Hannibal's apartment. As the man in question leads him through the main room to a chaise-longue in the kitchen, Will finds that he has lost the ability to speak. Dark, brooding paintings completely cover each wall, smothering the pure white paint behind them. The curtains are red velvet, the sofa a deep crimson leather. The room has noticeable parallels to the castle from Bram Stoker's Dracula and Will thinks the room completely mirrors it’s owner: beautiful and unnerving in equal measures. The theme carries on through to the kitchen, which has to be twice the size of the main room, furnished with cherry oak counters and a concerning collection of knives. There's still a range of art on the wall in this room, though they are sparse and muted. 

"This is so extravagant. God, how much do you _earn?"_ The words are out of Will's mouth before he realises how terrible he sounds. A lump begins to form in his throat as he sees Hannibal’s blank stare, his heart rate increasing by a tenfold. All he can think is  _what if I've messed this up, what if I've messed this up, what if this is the end of us, before we've truly began?_ Will's eyes dart furiously across the room, unable to rest on Hannibal as he tries to rectify his mistake.

"Sorry," he begins, at almost a whisper, "That was so rude of me, I'm not sure what came over me, I wasn't thinking, I don't know why-"

Hannibal dismisses the comment with a flick of his hand, beginning to explain one of the paintings to Will. A soft smile flickers on Hannibal's face, and Will feels stupid for overreacting.

Once Hannibal has finished speaking, he turns to Will. 

"You like this place, then?"

"It's truly something."

"You don't think it's a bit over-the-top?"

"Oh of course it is, but _so are you."_

"I feel as if I've been insulted."

Will blushes, and knows it isn’t for the first time this evening. "I didn't mean it like that, this whole apartment is the utter personification of everything you are, and I love that. It encapsulates you better than your paintings could.” 

Hannibal gives Will's shoulder a quick rub before moving to the kitchen, pulling out various utensils and ingredients. Will can't take his eyes off Hannibal's forearms as he neatly chops up parsley, watching the muscles tense and contract as Hannibal moves to grind almonds up with a pestle and mortar. Mesmerised, Will sits and observes silently until Hannibal finally looks up and motions for him to move behind the counter.

Docile and smiling, Will moves so that he's stood next to Hannibal, staring at the array of herbs and spices, recognizing two out of about twenty of them. It’s been a while since he's done anything in the kitchen that didn't involve a microwave meal. 

"Mix that for me, please." 

Will follows Hannibal's gaze to a bowl of paste the man had concocted in the last few minutes. As he begins to follow Hannibal's instructions, warm hands snake around to cover Will's. Hannibal rests his chest against Will's back, murmuring "no, like this" as he helps Will stir. The two men stay like that, arm in arm, for as long as Will can endure. Just as he's ready to do something stupid, Will manages to squeak out a meek _thanks_ before pulling away, leaving Hannibal to his own devices. Whilst he continues carrying out the task at hand, Will finds himself distracted by Hannibal's swift, concise movements. He frolics around the kitchen with an unusual sort of elegance, performing his own unorthodox ballet. Will is so distracted by Hannibal's graceful performance that he forgets what he's doing and bright red paste flicks out of the bowl, leaving a stain on Will's shirt that he prays isn't permanent. He hears Hannibal chuckle behind him and spins around to see the other man holding up an apron.

"It's a bit late for that," Will says. Although he certainly doesn't protest when Hannibal hangs it around his neck, smoothing down the soft curls at the base of Will's skull. Will goes to tie the string but is quickly swatted away by Hannibal. The other man's hands slide under Will's arms, almost cradling him as he ties a bow, resting his cheek against Will's neck. The places where Hannibal has touched him feel like they're on fire and Will is suddenly overwhelmed by the sensation, by the possibility, no- perhaps even the probability that Hannibal returns his sentiment. 

He backs away after that, knowing that if this tension dragged out any longer he might collapse. Forcing himself to tear his eyes from Hannibal, he focuses on the instructions he is given, calmed by the pacifying sound of Hannibal's voice. Will lets out a long exhale, feeling a resounding sense of peace as they cook harmoniously together. _Yes_ , Will thinks, _this is the life I desire._

*

Will waits patiently in the dining room, staring at the huge ornamental deer head that is hung on the wall. It's a deathly shade of black and completely dominates the room. Will is bewitched, it's a beautiful representation of all that encompasses Hannibal. He's snapped out of his reverie by the man’s arrival, armed with a tray of teacups. Will hasn't seen a finer set since he binge-watched Downton Abbey last winter. Hannibal bends over the table to pour green tea into Will's cup and a million explicit thoughts race through his head, making him bite his bottom lip in shame.

Holding the teacup up to Hannibal, he mumbles a quick "cheers" before bringing steaming hot tea to his lips. Hannibal looks slightly repulsed by the idea of clinking his precious tea set like a common pint of beer. A faint look of disgust quickly turns to outright shock and Hannibal jumps up rather alarmingly.

"Will Graham, that is _not_ how you hold a teacup!”

The tea wobbles precariously in Will's palms, teetering on the edge but never spilling. Hannibal rearranges his fingers delicately, stroking each digit as he works. 

"There," he takes a step back and smiles. Will finds that holding the teacup has suddenly become a thousand times more difficult, and he grins back through the nerves as the scolding liquid touches his lips. He continues to sip the tea in little bursts; he's too focused on trying not to smash it that he doesn't notice Hannibal has laid out dinner until the other man coughs.

A concoction of food lies in the porcelain bowl in front of him and Will can’t even begin to guess what it is. Part of him doesn’t want to: he thinks accepting whatever Hannibal gives him and trusting the other man explicitly is all part of this game they’re playing. Hannibal’s staring at him and it takes Will a moment to realise he's waiting. Waiting for his guest to take the first bite. Will rises to the challenge. 

As his fingers clasp around the cutlery nearest to him, the sound of Hannibal's gravelly voice reverberating around the room makes him drop them suddenly.

“No, start with the biggest fork and work you way in-"

He fumbles and tries again. 

"-God, Will! That’s the bread knife.”  

*

The dinner exasperates Hannibal, although he finds it strangely comforting. Will is an eager learner, and quickly emulates Hannibal’s actions. His frustration ceases after that, and he's able to enjoy the steady flow of conversation from Will. It's small talk and the words carry little meaning as they bounce around the room, though it's a quite nice change for Hannibal. Refreshing, almost, compared to drab elderly scholars he normally entertains. Somehow, talking about Will's teenage trips to Ibiza please him a lot more than personal dissertations on Heraclitus. As he clears the dessert plates, he goes over every little interaction him and his new companion have shared these past few weeks, and wonders how it all would culminate. _Would he take the leap? Would he dare?_

When Hannibal re-enters the dining room, he pauses behind Will and makes his decision; brings his face close to Will’s neck, feeling the irregular _thumpTHUMPTHUMP_  of his guest's pulse. Hannibal's nose rests against the fleshy spot behind Will's ear as he softly inhales. The tension renders Will speechless, scared to lean in, scared to back out. 

Hannibal makes the choice for him, bringing his lips to the bare skin on Will’s neck, not exactly kissing, just resting them there. It makes Will feel alive. 

“Is this right?” Will whispers.

“Perhaps,” he says against Will’s flesh, so that the other man feels every single syllable of his words, “There was moment when I first saw you: big, doe eyes trapped in that painting. You _were_ the painting, Will. All I could do was stare at you - the masterpiece uncurling right before me. You didn't see me but I saw you, I _only_ saw you. I didn't even know who you were -- but I nearly told you I loved you.” 

Will crumbles. All of their silly actions over the course of this evening have collected like huge weights on Will's back, but Hannibal's silky sentiments are his breaking point. He can physically feel all notions of rationality leave his body, and he succumbs to his bone-achingly deep want, tilting his head so that Hannibal's lips are dragged to the very corners of his own, pushing himself on the other man with an unforeseen force.

Will’s tongue leaves his mouth, and before he can stop himself, or rationalise his actions, he drags it across Hannibal’s upper lip, tasting remnants of their meal. Hannibal claims Will’s lips and Will explodes. Their positions are awkward and unflattering, the chair has started digging into Hannibal’s knee and Will’s muscles are aching from straining to kiss the taller man. Will stands up to rectify the situation, but Hannibal has other ideas, moving to sit on Will's chair instead, pulling the other man down with him. 

Straddling somebody on a gorgeous baroque chair is definitely not Will's idea of perfect comfort. However, Will finds he doesn't care as they lock lips once more; slowly, almost majestically, both taking their time to explore every inch of the other's mouth. Hands slip under soft satin shirts, rubbing, massaging, exploring until Will's unsure where he ends and where Hannibal begins. In this moment, they are no longer two individual points dancing around each other, but a singular, whole human being. Will doesn't have to whisper mellow sounds of _let's move, let us part now so we can walk up those stairs, unashamedly touching every piece of skin i can on the journey. let me see the man behind the suit, let me kissandkissandkissandkiss, let me have purchase over every inch of your pale skin as the moonlight twinkles against the curvature of your spine. let us fall against the sheets, let me relinquish myself to you in my entirety. claim me, hannibal. leave me powerless, leave me a sated mess of trembling limbs and broken thoughts until the only thing that can leave my lips is yesyesyes. and when we eventually rise, let us not be the same men that we were when we fell._ Will does not have to say any of this, because Hannibal understands everything he sees in Will's eyes. He gives a faint nod. Agreement, Will thinks as Hannibal leads him up the stairs. Then he realises, no. Not an agreement. A promise. The knowledge of what is about to happen sets Will alight. 


	8. The Deluge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from a turner painting

The first thing Will registers is warmth. Warmth and comfort and heaven that lulls him back to sleep. The only thing that stops him from drifting off is the sound of soft breaths, _not his, then whose?_ his brain supplies, and forces him to open his eyes. 

Hannibal has contorted himself so that he can read whilst leaving Will undisturbed in his slumber. He seems fully awake and Will surmises that he’s been there a long time, silent and waiting. The premise of this makes him feel an overwhelming sense of bliss as he grins at the other man. 

“Did you get a good night’s sleep?” Hannibal enquires, placing a leather bookmark in the middle of The Aenid. 

Will confides in Hannibal about his insomnia, and the awful dreams that used to haunt him night after night after night. 

“...They’ve been getting better - _I’ve_ been getting better since you came along. And no, I’m not naïve enough to think they’re gone forever, or that they ever will be but what I feel around you and what you, in turn, make me feel seems to keep them at bay.” 

Hannibal eyes soften, and for a moment Will thinks he sees hints of tears in the other man's eyes, but Hannibal quickly moves to rest his face on Will's neck. Will’s body is flooded with a sudden awareness of the once sticky fluids on his legs. They itch against his skin as he moves to brush against Hannibal and a faint sense of repulsion ripples through his body. Hannibal seems to understand this movement, planting a kiss on Will's temple, leaving his mouth there and whispering, “I’ll run a bath.”

Will contemplates going back to sleep, cushioned by the soft linen of the bed. The mattress is foam, dipping and moulding to fit Will’s body, resting against every inch of his bare skin. This is heaven, he thinks, I have died and this is what heaven feels like. 

His body eventually allows him to rise, clumsily following the sound of running water until he arrives in a bathroom that wouldn't look out of place in Buckingham Palace. Hannibal is now wearing navy blue pyjamas and has his arms thrust into the frothy water, moving the bubbles around.

At first, he feels uncomfortable standing stark naked in front of Hannibal’s judgemental eyes. As the sweet smell of citrus begins to fill the room, Will's mind conjures up images of the night before and he instantly relaxes, feeling at ease. His skin burns like rifle fire but it’s not the water that does it. He burns from the sultry glances Hannibal sends his way to the point where he can’t feel the heat of the water until he is completely submerged.

Hannibal kneels at the side of the bathtub, reminding Will of a pose he was in not so long ago, and grabs the loofah from the vanity table. His touch is harsh and unforgiving against Will’s skin and he finds he doesn’t care, succumbing to the other man’s touch. Will closes his eyes and relaxes, feeling Hannibal’s fingers hard and firm against his skin. He feels his previous tension and anxiety wash away alongside the dirt. As Hannibal goes about his work, Will forces himself to completely empty his mind of everything, to focus on the hands that are now in his hair, furiously scrubbing shampoo in. Rest, a voice says. And Will’s brain happily complies.

*

He’s half-asleep when he hears the padding of bare feet against the ground, indicating that Hannibal is walking away and out of the bathroom. His departure brings Will to his senses, removing the last bits of shampoo from his hair before pulling himself up and out of the bath. The cold hits him straight away, almost paralysing, sending a shiver up his spine. He finds the clothes Hannibal has left out for him: silk pyjamas. Typical. Will doesn't know why he expected anything else - graphic tees and sweatpants didn’t seem like Hannibal’s style. That last image forces out a soft laugh from Will and he makes a mental note to bribe Hannibal into one of his old Star Trek shirts at some point. 

On his way to the kitchen, he passes a mirror in the hallway and forces himself to take a quick glance. He's pleasantly surprised by what looks back at him, a fresh, clean-faced man. A flattering contrast to the mess he’d been mere weeks ago.

The smell of ripe tomatoes hits Will as he walks into the kitchen, admiring Hannibal‘s dexterity as he serves up something that Will can’t identify. Hannibal gestures him to sit at the breakfast bar alongside him.

“Shakshuka. The recipe comes from an associate in Tunisia, I hope it’s to your liking.”  

Will grins, relaxed and comfortable as they eat in companionable silence. Once they have finished and the dishes have been washed and shelved, Hannibal is the one who speaks. “Stay?” 

“Of course.” 

*

They spend the morning wrapped in a blanket, watching Hannibal’s favourite film, which is fittingly _Loving, Vincent._ Will enjoys seeing the man who is normally so reserved be entirely lost in the film, eyes wide and mouth agape, like a little child in a toy store. The only time he speaks is at the start when he declares, “Look Will, isn’t it a masterpiece? Every single frame in this film is it’s own individual Van Gogh-style painting. It truly redefines art in this era, doesn’t it?” Will can only hum in response, it’s all making him stupidly happy, seeing Hannibal so humane. When the film cuts to _A Wheatfield, with Cypresses_ the two turn to each other, and Will finds himself slightly teary-eyed at it’s connotations. He rests his head on Hannibal’s shoulder and Hannibal’s fingers thread through Will’s curls, stroking him like he might do with a frightened animal. It’s beautifully intimate and Will wants to stake his entire life on this moment, to make it last forever and ever and ever and discard the rest. 

Afterwards, Hannibal elects that Will pick a film and looks faintly disgusted throughout the whole of _Ratatouille._ He doesn’t see the humour in Will’s comparisons between him and a talking rat. 

*

Whilst Hannibal prepares lunch, Will retrieves the laptop from the bag he had brought. He begins the monotonous task of sieving through his emails whilst nibbling at the crackers Hannibal had laid out, until he sees an email Crawford has sent him and pauses. It almost makes him chuckle, the realisation that he's actually hoping it isn’t work-related. It's certainly a first for Will.

He breathes a sigh of relief at the subject line: _take a break._ His eyes dart across the screen, ecstatic to learn that he and Hannibal have a few more days to themselves, his mind filled with millions of possibilities and millions of animated culinary films to torture the other man with. He can't wait to watch Hannibal explode at Po’s dumpling skills in _Kung Fu Panda._

Crawford has linked some cheap weekend deals, and he laughs as he reads them out to Hannibal.

“Two days in Benidorm? I don’t think I can imagine you in speedos.” 

“Please don’t try.” 

“Interesting that you assume I haven’t already.”  

He gets a cushion clumsily thrown at him for that last remark. 

Hannibal moves to read them over Will’s shoulder.

“Cheap flights to Nigeria? Okay, that does not sound reliable at all.“ 

“Well none of this links have mentioned penis enlargements yet, so I think we’re safe for now.” 

Will cuts off Hannibal’s chuckle with an outburst: “Hey, a spa break sounds nice. I think we could both do with a massage or two after what we've been through.” 

“Unnecessary,” Hannibal quickly dismisses, “I had a keen interest in psychology as a young man, and that extended into forms of physical therapy. I am able to alleviate any pains you might have.”  

“God, Hannibal, is there anything can’t do?” 

“I’ve never won a game of monopoly.” 

“Too bad I don’t have a monopoly board and only have a bad back.” 

“Yes, it’s a tragedy,” Hannibal smirks.

For a moment, Will thinks Hannibal is deliberating ignoring his suggestion. That they’ll move past their comments and go back to whatever was before them. But then Hannibal is leaving the room, re-entering with what Will recognises as massage oil, and his heart starts to beat a little faster. 

Will reaches to take off his shirt only for Hannibal’s hands to cover his own, moving them away from the buttons. Hannibal slowly undoes them himself, pausing to feel the sparse expanse of hair that is dotted around Will’s chest. The silk falls and pools in a heap at Will’s toes. He turns around, lying on his front on the sofa. Hannibal straddles him, oil in hand, trying his best to make Will feel as relaxed as possible. He can’t help but kiss the expanse of freckles that litter Will’s back. He feels Will’s muscles contract, gilded by lamplight, underneath his lips.

“Sorry," Will whispers, after his breath hitches a little, "I guess I’ve always been insecure about my freckles. They're like ugly little stains -- impurities." 

“Oh,” Hannibal sighs back, rubbing his face against his partner’s shoulder blades, “Will, they’re beautiful, like your own little constellations. You own the stars.”

Will thinks he’s going to melt if Hannibal continues speaking like that. Or, just maybe, he may even begin to believe him. 

The first touch was cold and wet and almost coy. Will tries not to flinch at the temperature, beginning to relax more as Hannibal's hands travel up and down his back, acquainting himself with the shapes. Well-trained hands tense around his shoulder blades and relax against the soft skin at the nape of his skull. Hannibal inhales the coconut fumes of the oil, digging the palms of his hands into Will's flesh. The other man makes near illicit sounds, becoming both limp and responsive under Hannibal's touch. 

Will pauses through his small moans to flip himself over, to stare Hannibal right in the eye and say, "are you going to massage all the stiff parts of me?"

It's a request and a challenge. In hindsight, it's not the best line Will's ever thought of but as Hannibal's oily hands move from Will's skin to the visible tenting in his pants, Will feels slightly smug. It doesn't last though; Hannibal's soft, rhythmic strokes reduce him to nothing but stammered whispers of "please" and "more" and "please" and "more" and "close."

"Close,"  Will whispers as he spills over Hannibal's hands, sticky fluids binding them together, and smiles as a familiar wave of contentment washes over him and Hannibal.


	9. The Fighting Temeraire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from a turner painting

 They live in harmony for three days, and there is no mention of Will returning home.

 Instead there’s always pristine shirts and trousers laid out when Will wakes up, a distant smell of coffee and bacon in air. They live side-by-side together, content. Will thinks it's blissful. The pair don't exactly take up Jack's vacation offers. Instead, Will allows Hannibal to lead him around London, spending their days strolling around the city. Will finds it wonderfully domestic: he's lived in London all his life, and absolutely hates the place. If it wasn't for his career, he'd be in the middle of butt-fucking-nowhere right now, where the only worry he'd have is what kind of goat to buy next. 

However, Will sees another side of London in his travels with Hannibal. He's taken to all manor of museums and galleries, from ones that are so crammed with tourists that Will forgets how to breathe, to tiny art exhibitions with more paintings than people. Will is entranced by it all, and throughout the journey Hannibal's arm is entwined with his own, the other man acting as his own personal tour guide. They frolic around parks, take in a Agatha Christie play and eat in cafés that are little gems in the city, walls lined with books and coffee so good that Will never wants to make his own again. 

They're sat in one when the call comes. Will drops his Danish pastry to fish out his phone, and his heart skips a beat when he sees it's from Crawford. He's been keeping all his thoughts and anxieties about the case locked up right in the back of his mind. The ringing reverberates around the café, and it becomes quite malicious to Will, a symbol that this little haven the two men had made for themselves is over. Work will resume, the time before _them_ will resume. Will reviles the change.

He walks out of the café and begins to pace the dismal streets as he waits for the call to connect. 

"Will," Jack's voice comes through finally, gravely and fast, not giving Will time to respond, "I'd like to see you and Hannibal in my office this afternoon."

He forgets how to speak, and makes a small nod with his head, so numb that he doesn't register that Jack's not really there. Will, in a fleeting moment of panic, wants to run away with Hannibal. To pack up right then and there and catch the first flight they can, to get away from this polluted city and it's polluted people, to have the space to simply breathe. 

Instead, he pulls himself out of the delusion and goes to back to the café, goes back to Hannibal, and embraces the other man before he relays the message.

*

"No murders? Are you serious? So he's just stopped? Surely not? What do we do now? Where do we go from here?"

Will completely bombards Jack with questions, frustrating him to the point that Jack considers exiling them both away on another vacation. It's only the knowledge of what's at stake that keeps him from throwing something at Will.

Then there's a cool hand in Will's, Hannibal's fingers lacing through his, and the room suddenly feels much calmer.

"Well," Jack begins, unwilling to break the lovely silence that has fallen over the room, "If we're still working off the rule that he commits a crime every three days, then he's missed two killings. Nearly a week since his last offence, Bacchus and Ariadne, which you both know about."

"It's almost like he's building up tension," Hannibal interjects, "like he's preparing for some twisted final act."

Will's eyes light up slightly, and he moves his hand from Hannibal's to point furiously at Jack.

"Yes! That's it, his killings are hierarchical. He's gone from murdering a random victim, to a visitor at the gallery, to a student there and most recently an employee. He's working his way up the ladder, trying to get as close to the Gallery as possible. But, like Hannibal said, what will be his last act?"

Jack pauses, deep in thought and decides that the proposal is logical, "Where does he go next, though? What is closer to the Gallery than somebody who works there? A painter?"

"Impossible," Hannibal states, "They're all dead. At least, all the artists whose works currently hang in the Gallery."

Jack rifles through the files in front of him, spreading the sheets out so that they cover the entire desk. 

“How about somebody in a senior position? There’s the actual owner, Charles Mountbatten, or the Gallery’s wealthiest donor, Lord Hensley? Then there are numerous people in senior positions: Dorian Pembroke, Claire Douglas, Mary Constantine - like the Virgin Mary maybe? Or there's Alice We-"

Hannibal gasps. Almost too quiet to hear, but Jack picks up on it immediately. He also picks up on the recognition in Hannibal's eyes, a terrifying sparkle that illuminates the hazel pain sloshing around inside.   

"His final act... Madonna." is all he manages to get out.

Will turns to Hannibal, half-confused, half-excited, "he's going to murder Madonna?"

It's immediately clear that Hannibal doesn't understand the reference, and Jack watches him closely, trying to retain the laughter that is bubbling in his chest. Hannibal's fingers come up to rest on chin, eyebrows furrowed in a mock-thinking position. 

"How could he murder the Madonna? She died millenniums ago. Will, I don't understand your logic..."

Jack's laughter bubbles around the room, choking slightly on his cup of tea, "you've never heard of Madonna? I'm sorry but are you telling me you have never had the absolute pleasure of listening to Like A Prayer?" 

Will begins to giggle when he sees Hannibal's face of revulsion, not-so-successfully hiding it behind a cough.

"Excuse me gentlemen, I may not understand your biblical pop culture references but what I do understand is who committed these crimes."

The Poirot-style declaration makes both Jack and Will sit up in their seats.

"There's a man - a regular visitor to the gallery. For years he's come every Saturday for four hours like clockwork," Hannibal speaks slowly and precisely, like if he speeds up even a little he'll lose his grip on the situation, "he always sits in the same place, in front of Raphael's The Madonna and Child. Sometimes he'll just sit and stare, sometimes he'll bring a laptop with him and type as he constantly watches the painting. Most of the time, though, he sketches it. I've stolen glances at them, they're gorgeous. Perhaps even as beautiful as the original, I'd say. He's never conversed with anyone whilst he's been there, never shown any sign of having friends or family or a career. He's developed the nickname Madonna amongst staff, that's why it finally clicked. It's him, I'm sure of it."

The room encases itself in silence, once more, though this time there is a deadly undercurrent in the air. This is the pivotal moment of their case, the defining moment of each of their career, but none of them can find the words. The tension in the room feels so fragile, Hannibal thinks he could break it with a single breath. His eyes turn from Jack to Will to Jack to Will, over and over again, willing one of them to speak.

"What hours does Constantine work?" Jack finally says in no more than a whisper.

Hannibal's eyes widen, expressing his terror once more, turning a sickly shade of white. Will has never seen Hannibal like this, it's such a stark contrast to his usual calm, omniscient demeanour. It makes Will want to throw up.

"The Madonna and Child. Raphael paints her holding the young Jesus Christ... Mary Constantine is currently on maternity leave."

Will fights for semblance and fails, befogged by the revelation. Rivulets of sweat careen down his face, carving out his cheekbones.

"A child. He wouldn't, would he?" Will asked. He's bitten his lip so hard that he has begun to taste the metallic tinge of blood on his palate. He already knows the answer.


	10. The Necromancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title comes from a painting by jean-baptiste le prince. emphasis on the tw for gore, violence etc for this chapter specifically.

 

Hannibal and Will have been banished to the dingy corridor by Jack, muffled sounds of angry phone calls emitting from the man's door. The noise grates on Will. He sits there wishing for peace, far away from this godforsaken place. The heavy weight of Hannibal's hand on his lulls him into a false state of tranquillity, slowing his mind, which is going over everything so fast, like a racehorse at Aintree. He can feel an ending to this madness in his bones, so close he could reach out and grab it and finally be able to begin a new chapter of his life. Of _their_ life.

“Will. Breathe.” 

He wishes he could, he wishes he could be a good companion and follow Hannibal’s instructions but his gasps for air are blocked by the increasingly vivid memories of the murders, the familiar smell of corpses clogging up every orifice. Then, Hannibal’s nose presses above his ear and Hannibal’s mouth, wet and open, leaves soft butterfly kisses above his jaw. They’re barely kisses, Will thinks — much too light, too little force. Will thinks about how his skin feels smoother, fresher where Hannibal has touched him, Will thinks about how Hannibal’s hand has reached around to massage his leg, Will thinks about how Jack could come out right now, at how any of his superiors could see them right now, but mostly he thinks about how little these things matter to him, how little he cares. Will's hand moves to cover Hannibal's, and then he stops thinking entirely. 

“Do you know what frightens me?” Hannibal begins, finally breaking the contact between the two, “Madonna reminded me of myself. I always had the same look in his eyes when staring at the art that he did. Complete and utter devotion. But now I see you, Will — as clear as day, and I know I've been so incredibly stupid.” 

Will doesn’t have the words, and instead chooses to initiate the next kiss, hoping his actions can convey even a slither of his affection. 

After a while, Will goes limp in Hannibal’s arms, curling up and resting his head on the other man’s shoulders. He can’t go to sleep here - he knows all too well that Jack would murder him if he did, so he stares straight forward instead. He blocks out the sound of Jack’s harsh words and replaces it with Hannibal’s heartbeat, which he can hear matching thumping of his own. He thinks that this is what heaven must feel like, and then he is snapped out of the reality he has so carefully crafted by the sound of Jack’s door opening. 

Jack doesn’t comment on the closeness of the two men; he’s good like that; at knowing where Will’s limits are and what he’s comfortable with. It’s probably why Will’s lasted so long under his management, compared to the two months with DCI Chilton. A few weeks with Chilton left him with six months ‘under psychiatric observation' and a burning desire to flee to some made-up country. Instead of the barrage of questions and taunts Will knows he’d receive from any other superior, Jack smiles sympathetic and ushers them inside.

The pair ignore Jack’s gesture to the chairs, in favour of squeezing up against the desk, each of them making futile attempts to read Jack’s scruffy handwriting. 

“Here is what we’re going to do,” Jack says, with no hint of uncertainty in his voice. He spies Will's half-open mouth and adds a stern, "-don't interrupt," to the sentence.

"We've spoken to Mary Constantine's husband. She left their apartment about half an hour ago, heading for the Gallery. Apparently, she planned to bring the newborn child, a boy, three weeks old, Theodore Constantine to her workplace, to introduce him to her colleagues. Nobody in the Gallery has noted her arrival yet, but her husband estimated that it normally takes her 20-25 minutes to get to work on the tube, so she may just be running late. I'm positioning our people in the Gallery as we speak, as a precaution, but there is no sign of our Madonna there.  
 "Speaking of which, we've been able to identify his face from CCTV footage -- he's a delivery man for a bakery that supplies products to the National Gallery's cafe. Simon Jacques, 42, two failed marriages and one restraining order, sounds like our guy. We've tracked the van to a secluded storage facility the company owns. I'd be breaking more rules than I can count by letting you two on the scene, and I'm certainly not risking my job on this one. So, here's what's happening: I am going to take a team to that storage facility and do everything I can to return Mrs. Constantine and her child safely. I'm going to allow you two to sit very nicely in the back of the car with me, and do absolutely nothing else. Understand?” 

Hannibal looks at Will as the word _yessir_ falls from his lips, and notices that as Will does so his head tips slightly either way, indicating that his answer is really a no. Hannibal is not quite sure what to make of it, acquiescing anyway. He’ll go. He’ll stay quiet with Will, do the job he was employed to do. And if the situation allows it, he’ll follow Will out of the police car and to the ends of the Earth. He would do it all without hesitance. And the prospect of that no longer terrifies him.

*

Will feels like a kid again, counting car after car as they speed past to distract him from the situation at hand. His heart beats faster the further out they drive from London and he rests his head on Hannibal's shoulder as his anxiety bubbles away inside of him. From this angle he can see Jack's GPS - the black dot representing his car and the red dot representing the destination inch closer and closer every second, and Will holds tighter and tighter onto Hannibal. 

After what feels like years holed up in that car with nobody making a sound except the police radio, that chirps away in a language only intelligible to Jack, they pull up to a mundane looking building, square, grey and old; quite unremarkable. Will has never seen so many police cars in his life and almost subconsciously wraps his fingers around the door handle. One stern glance from Jack and Will has rectified his mistake but Jack's eyes still wander to the child-lock on the door, lingering on it for just a second too long.

"I won't interfere, I promise."

Jack stares at Will so intensely that he feels like Jack is trying to break him with his mind - a habit he's seen in all the old dogs at the Yard, Will remembers. Crawford merely sighs; he sees the innocence and implicit trust that almost overflows inside Will's eyes. Warm, familiar hands steady Will, and Hannibal tries to quiet his mind with soft rubs whilst they watch Jack lead an array of armed officers into the building. _This is it,_ Will repeats over and over again in his head, _all my work wil- no, all_ our _work will culminate in this exact moment, nothing I do now will alter the outcome of these events._ Will wipes the sweat that has begun to drench his forehead with his sleeve. He can physically feel himself losing his grip on reality as he slides down the car seat, squeezing his eyes shut, willing the panic to subside. 

His breaths have become heavy pants and he debates about whether or not visiting the medical team would be a reasonable excuse to break Jack's golden rule of not leaving the car when the shrill cries of a baby interrupt his thoughts. The two men sit up like lightning, watching closely as a man appears from the side of the building, running to the ambulance with a very alive, breathing little child in his arms. A few seconds later, the baby is followed by a pale, ghost of a woman. Will hears Hannibal whisper _Mary_ , but he's already worked out who it is - the blotchy cheeks, the arms that shake vigorously against the blanket and the sheer look of terror in her dilated pupils is more than enough. 

And there he is - the Madonna in all his glory - the monster who has orchestrated everything. Middle-aged, with strands of copper, balding hair that form a goatee under his chin. A man who you’d easily pass in the street without a second glance. Jack’s hands are clasped hard around the his wrists and even from this far away Will thinks he can see the perpetrator’s hands turning red due the lack of circulation. Will stares as the two men inch slowly and steadily across the street, feet dragging against the gravel. Suddenly, Will’s eyes catch a sharp flash of silver light under the criminal’s wrist, and he jumps up, fumbling out of the car, forgetting how to breath because Will knows for certain that  _that’s a knife and this isn’t how it’s supposed to end and-_ he can’t get the words out fast enough, his throat clogs and clenches until he can’t remember ever speaking before, can’t even remember how words sound and all he can do is let a primal, fearful cry and watch everything crumble.

It all happens in a matter of seconds: Jack registers Will’s scream but before he can respond the Madonna kicks the back of Jack’s legs. And the man’s got some real strength in him because Jack buckles just slightly. However, those few centimetres end up to be fatal, as the criminal sees his opportunity and takes it, jabbing the tiny scalpel-like object into the fleshy part of Jack’s thigh. The man crumbles instantly, with a guttural moan of pain as the medical officers rush to him. 

Later, Will is certain that there were only a few seconds between Jack’s stabbing and the order to shoot. Three seconds, approximately. It is nothing, but it is enough. Enough for the Madonna to reach Mary and drag the scalpel across her bare throat. 

Will hears two consecutive gunshots and although he sees them enter the Madonna, sees the man collapse into the pool of Mary Constantine’s blood, he feels like the bullets have entered himself. Pain sears through his body and his brain has stopped functioning entirely. All he can register is blood blood blood, chaos, death, misery, screams, cries and more blood. He’s choking. The noxious red pool he sees so clearly on the pavement is in his throat and it's choking him. He can’t do this anymore, giving up all semblance of sanity and embracing his body's quiet pleas for him to let go. 

He falls. Just like the Madonna, just like Mary, just like Jack. He anticipates the pain that will shoot through him when his head hits the concrete. 

Instead, shaking hands cups his body, a warm, wet against his cheek. The last thing he hears is Hannibal’s cries:

_please_  
_please_  
_please_  
_don't leave me_

*

Clean. That is all that Will's brain can supply as he pries his eyes open. He smells clean, he feels clean and calming antiseptic fills the room. He tries to sit up and the subsequent sharp pain in his temples tell him that was a pretty lousy idea. Will blinks through the bright light until the figure by his side becomes crystal clear. 

"Hannibal."

The other man snaps into action, immediately adopting a motherly role. In the next ten minutes, Hannibal shoves all kinds of herbal remedies down Will's throat and up his nose, and all Will can do is lie their complacent, smiling sombrely at the man. Before Hannibal can draw away, Will catches his wrist, his memories beginning to slide together in his mind. 

"Mary?" Will asks tentatively, so quiet it's a wonder Hannibal hears him. He doesn't answer though, his solemn sigh all-telling. 

Will bashes his head against the pillow, eyes tight shut, fighting back a whimper and failing.  

"It was all for nothing, everything we went through. Nothing."

"God, Will, no."

A hand snakes through his hair. Warm lips touch his forehead. 

"Jack is alive, that child is alive thanks to you. You know that Madonna wouldn't have stopped his killing, there is never 'a final act' with somebody like him. You've saved countless lives, even if you refuse to see it."

Will shakes his head, in an effort to force the pain out. In response, Hannibal clasps Will's hand in a vice-like grip, raising their woven fingers up to Will's face. 

"And _this_ \- is this nothing? Because to me, Will, this is everything."

He doesn't stop the tears this time - big, fat droplets of water slide down his face, and his free hand moves to Hannibal's cheek and rests there, content. He slides to one side of the hospital bed and pats the empty space that has been created.

"Will, I don't think that would adhere to the hospital's etiquette code. Plus, I'm not sure it's the most sanitary of options, and may hinder your recovery."

Will shushes Hannibal and repeats the gesture until the other man finally concedes and clambers into the tiny bed, somehow still managing to keep his waistcoat pristine.

"Sleep," Will mumbles, even though the sun shining through the window suggests it is midday. He rests his nose against Hannibal's neck and places his outstretched palm over Hannibal's chest so he can feel his partner's heartbeat once more. The cheap mattress and array of monitors dig into Hannibal's sides, uncomfortable and aching. However, he finds that in this moment, life seems to be so perfect he does not care. He is bundled up in thick blankets of warmth, security and peace. The flutter of Will's eyelashes and the soft, rhythmic breaths that send tingles down his spine are an incredibly beautiful reminder of all that he has gained and most importantly, all that he has become. This is a miracle, he thinks, Will is a miracle.


	11. epilogue

Will's fingers tap furiously against the glass table, eyes constantly flickering to the clock above the fireplace. Ten minutes go by, then twenty, and when the clock reaches 8.50, Will reaches for the phone. The sharp rings make him flinch and his bare toes dig into the fibres of the carpet. The phone clicks and a high-pitched voice asks him how she can help.

"Hi, can you tell me if Hannibal Lecter is still at the Gallery - yes, I'll hold - really? Are you absolutely sure? Ok, ok. Thank you."

Will's legs refuse to support him any longer and he slips down the living room wall, sitting on the floor with his head in his hands. He tries to regulate his breathing, going through all the little exercises that over a decade in and out of therapy have taught him. _You're over-reacting. He's fine. An hour late, it can be explained. but god he's not back, he's not back, he'snotbackhe'snotbacknotbacknotbacknotbackNOTBACKNO-_ Inhale. Exhale.

He can do this, Will thinks. Everything's fine. He looks up from the floor, into the mirror. He can just about see his eyes in it, and he stares at himself in earnest. He knows what he has to do - ring Hannibal once more, just to check. Then to let Jack know, to let Jack calm him down. Yes, Jack will know what do. Will manages to stand up, using the cabinets to support him as he inches to his phone. Hannibal. It goes to voicemail once again, and Will's heart sinks. He taps in Jack's number instead of going to his contacts to drag this process out a little longer. His finger hovers over the call button, _is he overreacting?_  Images of last year's events flood his mind and he presses the call button confidently.

The call goes through to Jack's secretary, who tells Will he's in a meeting. Will stresses that it's an emergency but she's having none of it.

"Please Lisa, just let me speak to him. You know I wouldn't call if it wasn't an emergency!... that was one time!... ok, so maybe a couple more times than that but still, it genuinely is an emergency... Lisa, I'm begging you, I-"

The sound of keys in the door makes his heart stop. Will thinks he might cry. He mumbles a quick apology to Lisa - after making her swear to not tell Jack, of course. When Hannibal appears in the doorway, Will lunges at him. Hannibal smells like cinnamon and warmth and home. It's raw and familiar and Will almost sinks into the other man's flesh, beginning to kiss the other man's jaw.

"Somebody's happy to see me," Hannibal whispers before bring his lips to Will's for what he intends to be a quick peck, but Will chooses the opportunity to kiss him like a starved man, like they're teenagers and this is their first time, tasting the kim chi Hannibal took for lunch. His hands inevitably wander to Hannibal's belt and he's in the middle of undoing the buckle when a loud bark makes him jump half a mile away from the other man.

His eyes flicker to the basket he hadn't realised Hannibal was holding and the tufts of pure white fur poking out of it. 

"Oh, Hannibal. You didn't..."

Hannibal places the basket on the floor, but before he can properly open it, the little mongrel bursts out and runs into Will's arms. Will strokes the warm fur behind the puppy's ears, grinning and cooing whilst he does. The dog licks and licks at Will's cheek and he finds that he just cannot stop smiling as he takes a tiny paw in his hand. He also realises there's a collar around his neck too, and Will's fingers follow the bright red fabric until they connect with a cold metal tag. His thumb strokes the fresh engraving delicately, eyes beginning to water. _Vincent_ , it reads. It's sentimental and heartfelt and Will thinks he's perfect.

He forces himself to put the dog down, Will's already completely smitten with him. He watches, bursting with joy as the curious thing sniffs his away around his new home. Hannibal loops his arm around Will's waist, heads colliding softly as they observe the newest member of the family they have created together. 

"This is all I ever wanted for you," Hannibal says, voice warm and flowing like honey, "for both of us."

Will steals another kiss from Hannibal's lips, and for once he is certain that it will not be the last.

"It's beautiful." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, i just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who has persisted with this story, even with my horrible track record for uploads. all your lovely comments and kudos mean the world to me, and completely this story - the first fanfiction I've ever written that has been more than a couple chapters long - has been such a stressful, but incredibly rewarding journey. I hope you liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> thank you all so much!  
> \- cait

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: @mandelsons


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